


It Meant Nothing (Even If It Really Did)

by CorpusHypercubicus



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Divergence, I really do ship them, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, post episode 7, sad af, the kiss doesn't go over as planned, why can't I just let them be happy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:29:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8775979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpusHypercubicus/pseuds/CorpusHypercubicus
Summary: Tonight was the only time I’ve ever felt fire and passion.  Tonight was the first time I was kissed by someone that didn’t seem afraid to break me.  Tonight was the first time anyone ever looked at me like that, so tenderly, like I was the most incredible, beautiful thing they’d ever seen.  Tonight was everything a first kiss should be.  But it meant nothing, right?Or Victor and Yuuri's first kiss at the end of episode 7 doesn't exactly go as planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic since this gay as hell anime pulled me out of the dumpster fire that is finals week. I promise I love these boys. I just needed to write some angst haha. Let me know what you think and if you think I should continue

By now, the news is everywhere.

It’s not a shock that it spread so quickly. The whole event was on live television. The cameras were still trained on me. I’d just finished my free skate, so of course they were still on. He had to have known that everyone would see. 

It wasn’t a private moment interrupted by paparazzi cameras or groupies. No, it was sudden and impulsive and public. 

So very public. 

So very Victor. 

*buzz* *buzz*

I sit frozen on the hotel bed, my cell phone gripped tightly in my hand. It’s been vibrating with new messages ever since I got back to the hotel, but I haven’t had the courage to look until now. I read the first few message. 

The first two are congratulations from Leo and Guang-Hong, who I haven’t spoken to all day. There’s no mention of Victor in their texts, so I breathe a sigh of relief and send them each a quick message back. I can only hope they leave it at that.

The next one is from my mother. 

No congratulations. No I’m proud of you son. 

I feel the bile rise up in my throat, but I swallow it down. 

I don’t have the strength to look at the rest of the messages. I just…can’t. Not now. Not without knowing…without knowing what it meant to him. 

Because I don’t know what it was. I don’t…I don’t…

Somewhere in the background, a shower head drips in time with the beads of water that roll off my hair and down my back. It occurs to me that I haven’t turned on the television or radio like I usually do when I return from an event. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting in silence like this, frozen and staring. It hasn’t been long enough for the steam to have dissipated. But, then again, my shower had been practically scalding in an attempt to melt away the tension…

Reluctantly, I take a deep, calming breath while flipping the cold, plastic-encased phone in my clammy hands. 

It’s going to be alright. 

Victor…

I imagine it’s his voice saying it, in accented English this time. Sometimes the voice speaks in stumbling, unsure Japanese, and on rare occasions there are bits of fragmented Russian woven in. He does that a lot, murmurs things in his mother tongue that I can’t understand but still somehow manage to. 

The voice inside my head, the voice that calms me down…it’s his now. It used to be my mother’s, for so many years, even when I hadn’t been home in half a decade. But it’s not her’s anymore, not since he came. 

I almost think he’s here, next to me. I can practically feel him there: the familiar weight of his slim hand on my shoulder, the slight dip of the bed. The phantom smell of his cologne, warm and inviting, hangs in the air around me.

The illusion breaks when I open my eyes. I’m alone in my hotel room, staring out the picture window as snowflakes drift in the wind. 

I close my eyes again and take another slow, deep breath. 

It’s going to be alright, Yuuri. I know it will. 

In reality, he hasn’t acknowledged me since the manic, post-skate interviews, and even then he only spoke overly enthusiastic formalities. Coaches usually did most of the talking anyway. 

He said he was so proud of my quadruple flip, even though I botched the landing. He said…he said that I’m sure to take gold at the Rostelecom Cup. He said I was the skater to beat even though I’d lost out to Phichit…

I thought he was proud of me. 

I guess that’s why it hurt so much when he didn’t look me in the eyes as we rode in the cab back to the hotel. He didn’t say anything, just sat there unblinking and unmoving as the lights of the city blurred past us. The moment the doors opened and we stepped into the hotel, he turned the opposite direction, away from the elevators and from me. 

He didn’t say goodnight. He always says goodnight. Always… 

*drip* *drip* 

Maybe it had something to do with the argument he had with Yakov. After the interview, the older man pulled Victor off to the side, where he thought nobody could see them. I saw, though. Yakov didn’t scream like he usually did. No, instead he talked hurriedly and quietly. I couldn’t understand because it was in Russian, of course, but the anger was clear on his face. It looked like the kind of deep-seated anger that surpassed screaming, instead warping into something new entirely. Something cold and bitter. 

The look on Victor’s face as he walked away, just before it was swallowed up by a complaisant mask, was heartbreaking. 

*buzz* *buzz* 

Frustrated, I toss my phone to the side, making sure it lands face down in the folds of the disheveled comforter so the fabric can muffle the still very much audible vibrations it emits. Just as I begin to search for the remote in a desperate attempt to distract myself, there’s a knock on the door. 

I get off the bed and shuffle towards the sound. There’s a moment of relief as my sore feet sinking into the plush carpet, but any pleasure is overtaken by the fresh anxiety that’s taken up residence in my chest. My eye reflexively finds the peephole, wondering who could be calling for me after such a late night. 

Maybe it’s Phichit and his friends, ready to drag me out to celebrate. 

Or maybe it’s Minako, with her own set of unanswerable questions. 

Instead, I’m greeted to a flash of silver hair. I panic for a moment, hands shaking as I undo the deadbolt and throw the door open. My heart quickens, slamming against my ribs at the very sight of him. 

“V-Victor?

Strands of brilliant silver hair fall in his face, still damp but towel-dried to the point that it’s no longer dripping on the hotel carpet. A pair of gray jogging pants hang low on his hips, and his long torso is wrapped in a tight black t-shirt. There’s still something strange about seeing him in such casual attire, even after all this time. 

“May I come in? I hope you’re not busy,” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically tight. That’s when I notice the look on his face. He’s not wearing is usual, easy smile. He’s not contemplative; he’s not angry. The look on his face is one I’ve never seen before. 

He’s faking it. 

I gulp and nod, stepping out of the doorway to let him in. My hotel room is a mess even though it had just been cleaned earlier this morning. The track suit I’d worn out of the arena was abandoned in pieces on the floor; wet towels were everywhere, soaking the carpet. We both sat down on the edge of my bed, awkwardly far apart from each other. 

“You performed wonderfully tonight Yuuri, I think I forgot to tell you that myself. There’s still a lot of work to be done before Moscow, but I know you can win the gold,” he assures me, a tight smile spreading across his face. 

That can’t be the only reason he’s here. My critique and peptalk could have happened rink side or after interviews or in the cab. It could’ve even waited until tomorrow, while we’re on the plane back home. 

“The competitions much stiffer in Moscow. If I couldn’t manage to take the gold here, how am I supposed to win against Yurio and JJ?” 

“Have more confidence,” he encourages me, daring to place my hand on his shoulder. “You surprised a lot of people today.” 

I cringe at the word “surprise”. It brings me back to the rink, and I can almost hear the roar of the crowd. I can almost feel the cold ice on my back, and something much warmer pressed against my front. The smell of his cologne, the heat coming off his body, the light blush that dusted his cheeks when he pulled away, the look in his eyes. 

No. 

Not the best motivation. 

“So did you,” I reply simply, voice going thick. My words hangs in the air between us for a moment

“Oh, I just a little carried away,” he chuckles, but the laugh that comes out of his mouth isn’t really his. “Meant nothing by it.”

His last statement feels like a question, and it’s almost like he expects an answer. Something tells me I need to agree. 

His argument with Yakov, the text from my mother…they’re all reasons I should play along. This is bigger than the both of us. If we act fast, we can brush it under the rug and pretend it never happened. We can pass it off as adrenaline or sleep deprivation or a mere accident. He was just going in for a hug, right? 

Against my own will, against my better judgment, even, I nod and paint a similar tightlipped smile on my face. It was a mistake…a misunderstanding…a slip-up…nothing…

“Good, good,” he replies awkwardly, hand drawing away from my shoulder after giving it one last squeeze. “It’s late, though, and you’ve had a long day. I’ll let you get to sleep. Good night Yuuri.” 

Without another word, he rises and pads out of the room, gently shutting the door behind him. 

I take series of quick but deep breaths before crawling across the bed and under the heavy blankets. But it’s a futile effort. Instead, I roll out of bed towards the suitcase that sits unpacked on the small breakfast table. I dig around before I find the tiny plastic pill bottle I keep on hands for nights like tonight when my anxiety threatens to keep my mind wired even when my body is physically exhausted. I never take them on nights before competitions because they make me too drowsy, even when I wake up. But now…now it’s okay. 

I crawl back into bed, hugging the blankets closer to myself and wishing that Makkachin or…or someone else was here instead. I watch the bright green numbers of the digital alarm clock change. I count the minutes until the pills start working. Everything starts to go pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, so I know sleep is close. 

In those fleeting moments at the edge of sleep, I can’t help but think. 

It wasn’t nothing to him. 

I know that he can’t mean it, not in his heart. If he has to question me about it, then he must be unsure himself. If what Yakov said influenced him, then it can’t be true. He’s not that kind of person. He’s rash and horribly impulsive and a notorious flirt but…he wouldn’t play me like that. 

It wasn’t nothing to me either. 

I’d been kissed before, no doubt about it. At 23, I wasn’t that pathetic. But those kisses, shared with girls whose names I couldn’t quite remember…those were the kisses that meant nothing. They stopped as soon as they started, quick pecks to the lip, nothing more. 

Tonight was the only time I’ve ever felt fire and passion. Tonight was the first time I was kissed by someone that didn’t seem afraid to break me. Tonight was the first time anyone ever looked at me like that, so tenderly, like I was the most incredible, beautiful thing they’d ever seen. Tonight was everything a first kiss should be. 

But it meant nothing, right?

It meant nothing. 

Even if it really did.


End file.
